


Where She Belongs

by Lassarina



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celes has nowhere to go after it's all said and done, but perhaps she can forge a new place here, with Setzer and Locke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where She Belongs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadcellredux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/gifts).



When it is all said and done, they are the only three left on the airship.

Everyone else has a place to go that they call home, save only Cyan, and he chose to go to Mobliz with Terra. That was their last stop, and as Setzer lifts the _Falcon_ into the sky once more, Celes stares at the ruined town beneath them. Their band was slow to scatter when it was over, lingering in each person's home at least an hour or so. It was in Narshe that the loss of magic had struck her; she had started shivering uncontrollably in the snow.

She had never been cold before. It is not an experience she cares to repeat.

And then it comes, the question she has been dreading since the others started naming their destinations. "Where shall I drop you, Celes?"

She turns to face Setzer. With his coat and hair billowing in the wind, the _Falcon's_ wheel clasped firmly in his hands, he is the very picture he wishes to present, the gambler with not a care in the world but the next horizon.

She has never been a coward before, and that is one thing from her prior life she will not change. "I don't know," she says. "I have no home."

He studies her over the wheel, his face the unreadable gambler's mask, and then looks to Locke. "And where will you plunder next?" he says, too innocently.

Locke flicks a very rude gesture of Figaroan origin at him. _"Treasure hunting,"_ he snarls. Then he shrugs, an effort to be casual that is anything but. "I didn't have specific plans."

Setzer rolls his eyes. "I won't have a couple of freeloaders interfering," he says, but there's no heat to the insult. "But I suppose you can stay here for a while."

It feels as though a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She nods her thanks. Locke grins, and leans back against the railing. He lounged that way against the rail of an Imperial boat once, on the way to Albrook, trying desperately to pretend it was driven by insouciance and style and not a need to be able to direct his mess overboard on short notice. "If we aren't going home," he says, "why don't we go celebrate?"

"Have somewhere in mind?" Setzer asks. There's a gleam in his eyes to match the one in Locke's. Celes feels as though she ought to protest, but she is no longer an enforcer of law and order, nor a rebel against an unjust order. She can be anyone she wants to be.

Locke studies his hands. "Jidoor's about the only place worth the effort, these days," he says.

Setzer grins. "We'll need to go shopping." He spins the wheel, and the _Falcon_ pivots like a dancer turning on her heel.

Two days later, Celes is dressed in a green silk gown (made at outrageous cost, between the materials and the rush—more than her soldiers made in a season), and they are flanking her in equally profligate finery as they stroll into a restaurant where a single dish costs as much as a meal for four in a simple tavern.

"There we go," Setzer murmurs. "The gentleman in the back corner."

She looks without moving her head, as she was taught during commando training (movement draws attention; movement can cause noise; be silent and undetectable) and sees a man of middling years, wearing a shade of blue that does his sallow complexion no favours, and speaking quietly with a woman seated at the table with him.

"Well chosen," Locke observes.

"I do try." Setzer speaks quietly to the attendant and soon they are conducted to a table next to the man in blue. He doesn't appear to notice them, and they pretend not to notice him. Setzer and Locke keep up a running patter of chitchat, things Celes has never wanted nor needed to care about before. She listens intently, and when she has caught the rhythm of their speech (Gestahl bred her to be a quick learner) she joins in the game. She cannot speak of the rich and the powerful the same way that they can—her knowledge of that group of people is restricted to how to neutralize any military threat they may try to muster—but some of that knowledge includes the best way to blackmail those individuals, so she can say meaningless things and have them sound accurate.

As the man in blue and his companion—a woman twenty years too young for him, if Celes is any judge, and by his hand on her waist she is a romantic companion, not a family member—rise to leave, Setzer smoothly switches gears to speak of an event nearby. He times it so that he drops a particular name just as the man in blue passes their table, and the man pauses.

"Were you just speaking of Lord Merrick?" he asks.

Setzer waits a moment to turn his head, as though annoyed to have his dinner conversation interrupted. Locke heaves a sigh. Celes does her best to look bored. "And if I was?" Setzer asks. The things he had been saying were not entirely complimentary.

The man hesitates, frowning at Setzer. "Do I know you, sir?" he asks.

Setzer straightens the immaculate lapels of his dark grey silk coat. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure." His tone is so mild that it might almost be construed as an insult.

"Haven't I seen you at the Swan Club?" the man persists.

"I don't think so." This time the faint disdain is evident. "I am a member of the Raven."

"And yet no friend of Lord Merrick," the man says, shrewder than he seemed a moment before.

Setzer shrugs.

The man reaches into his pocket. "I think you might find the Swan more to your tastes, friend," he says, slipping a silver medallion stamped with a swan into Setzer's palm under the guise of shaking hands.

Setzer puts the medallion away. "If I am sufficiently bored," he allows. The man in blue laughs as though he sees right through the façade, and continues on his way.

"That was remarkably easy," Celes says, fifteen minutes of idle chatter later, as Setzer transfers a piece of his flsh to her plate in exchange for a bite of her chicken.

"Almost too easy," Locke agrees.

Setzer smiles. "That's the point," he murmurs, and refuses to say more while they are in the restaurant.

They wait three days to attend the Swan Club, and in that time Setzer will not speak of his reasons for wanting the man in blue to see through their little game, though Locke badgers him constantly about it. Celes spends her time reviewing the notes that Setzer gave them about all of the players who are important in the Swan Club and matching it up against her memories, and a picture starts to emerge. When the appointed evening arrives, they dress up again and go directly to the Swan Club.

The stamped medallion gains them immediate entry, and unsurprisingly, Setzer leads them straight to the gaming room. He takes a seat at the same table as their benefactor from the other night—now clad in a more flattering grey—and Locke takes the seat between the two of them. Thinking back on what she had reviewed, Celes shifts to be near the man in servant's clothing who stands at the wall. He is built more solidly than most manservants should be, though her experience with that group of people is quite slim. Still, she knows a fighter's build when she sees it.

She is very glad she took the time to conceal daggers beneath the dress.

They are some two hours into the game, with no clear leader emerging, when a great commotion starts at the front of the room. The manservant with the unusual build immediately steps behind his master, and Celes is half a step behind him, her dagger in her hand and concealed by the folds of her dress.

She recognizes the man plowing through the crowded hall from her briefings in the Empire; he is Lord Merrick, the prime minister of Jidoor, and he looks absolutely furious. He is being trailed by a half-dozen men and women in the uniform of the city watch.

"Dalast! How dare you!" he shouts when he is near enough to be heard, and the room goes suddenly silent as everyone strains to hear.

Their quarry yawns and takes a sip of wine. "Your ill-bred display is boring, Merrick."

"Ill-bred?" Merrick's face turns an alarming shade of red. "You've taken my daughter's dower-gift!"

"What do I want with your lackwit daughter when half of Jidoor could be mine for the taking?" Dalast asks, rising to his feet.

The sound of fabric tearing is oddly loud, and the solid _thunk_ of metal hitting the floor is even louder. Locke bends down and plucks up a heavy necklace wrought of gold and diamonds in the Merrick family crest. The edge of Dalast's pocket flaps free of his coat, somehow detached. "What's this, then?" Locke says, feigning surprise. He is quick to slip the knife back into his sleeve, but Celes sees it.

She was right, then. She shifts her grip on the dagger and hopes she won't have to use it. She has had enough of killing.

Dalast is pale. "I've never seen that before," he says.

"Strange, then, that it fell out of your pocket," Setzer drawls.

"I tell you I know nothing of this!" Dalast shouts.

By now the city watch has reached them, and they seize Dalast. Setzer tips his head, and they make their way smoothly through the crowd and out of the club. Outside, a man in grey livery walks up to them. "Mister Gabbiani?" he asks.

"The very same." Setzer smiles.

The servant bows and offers a very heavy-looking bag. "With compliments, sir."

Setzer takes the bag and offers a nod. "Well met," he says, and then leads the way to the inn.

Locke is patient enough to wait until they are inside, and then he crosses his arms and leans against the door, blocking the exit. "I understand perfectly well the what. I don't understand the why."

"Lord Dalast bought his title and his way into the ruling council during the chaos after the world was torn," Setzer said. "Lord Merrick is the old guard. He didn't like the influence Dalast was amassing."

"But he couldn't strike at him in public or he'd risk his own position," Celes said.

"Just so. And Dalast _had,_ in fact, been looking at Merrick's daughter; he sent inquiries round through several intermediaries."

Locke's lip curls. "And what was this worth?"

"Oh, several thousand gil." Setzer sets the bag down on the table with a solid clanking sound. "And the satisfaction of a bet won."

Celes raises an eyebrow. "You bet you could do it?"

"Surely not," Setzer says, opening the bag and beginning to sort the coins. "There was no question, or Merrick wouldn't approach me at all. No, the bet was as to timeframe. I bet it would take me less than a week." The coins stack up in three neat piles.

"Next time," Locke says, "I would appreciate knowing a little more beforehand. It's easier to improvise when I know the steps."

Setzer gives a delicate shudder. "Don't improvise," he says, and shoves one of the three stacks of coin at Locke.

"Next time?" Celes inquires.

Locke stretches. "There's this guy in Figaro that's been giving Edgar fits," he says.

"We'll talk about it on the _Falcon,"_ Setzer says firmly. "Not here."

Perhaps, Celes thinks as she moves to the next room to change into more comfortable clothing, she does have a place to be after all.


End file.
